Nocturne
by CSI Clue
Summary: A dream is the clue that leads Doctor McCoy to solving a mystery involving an intriguing crew woman.
1. Chapter 1

Nocturne

"So, you're fairly healthy and fit for duty, ensign," McCoy told the young crewmember who sat on the exam table, pulling his shirt back on. "Just be sure to duck the next time you find yourself climbing around in tight quarters, all right? Less chance of cracking your noggin that way."

The ensign, Callahan, nodded sheepishly. "Yeah, I'll keep that in mind. I was a little sleepy when I went on duty so I wasn't at one hundred percent." He rubbed his forehead a little as he spoke, and McCoy tried not to smile.

"Getting enough rest?"

"Oh yeah. Had a . . . dream," the ensign gulped, going red. That was enough to make McCoy arch an eyebrow knowingly.

"Must have been a good one," he replied gently. The ensign's mouth twisted wryly and he nodded, slipping from the table.

"Yeahhh," came his sigh. "I know it was just a dream, but it felt so *real* and I'm telling you, if I could have one like that every night, life would be . . . perfect."

McCoy crossed his arms and gave Callahan an amused look. "Now I *know* you're going to be fine. Here's hoping you get a repeat at some point, and do me a favor—watch your head, okay?"

The ensign nodded and blushed, scurrying out of Sickbay, leaving McCoy to watch his retreating back and grin. The kid's youth and libido amused him; it had been a long time since his own last erotic dream.

It had been a long time since his last erotic *anything,* he admitted to himself, slightly disconcerted at the fact. Not that he lacked interest; McCoy knew he was as a prone to a surge of testosterone as any other male on the ship. No, it was simply that he was wary about getting involved again. The occasional shore leave romance was all well and good, but actually getting close to someone, particularly here on the Enterprise . . .

He wasn't going to let that happen. The anger, frustration and pain of one divorce were enough, as far as McCoy was concerned. End of story. Let Jim sleep his way through the crew—discreetly, McCoy hoped—and handle what romance was going to happen on the ship. As for him, there were better things to consider.

At least, that was what he told himself with a wry snort. Life had a way of mocking ultimatums, and as a doctor, he knew that fact all too well, so he contented himself with filing the accident report and checking the duty roster, putting the entire notion of erotic dreams away for another, more private time.

As McCoy entered the last notation on Callahan's file, he heard the Sickbay doors open and a slightly desperate voice call out, "Oh God is there anyone here who can *help* us?"

"Ilda, it's a *cut,* not a sucking chest wound; calm down!" came another, more exasperated voice. Both of them were feminine, and McCoy looked up as one of the on-duty nurses—Tsan—came out of the pharmacy, heading for the door.

Two women stood in the doorway, a tall blonde and a shorter redhead. The blonde had her arm around the redhead and seemed to be supporting her. McCoy rose up, scanning them both as Tsan spoke quickly. "What seems to be the problem?"

"There was *blood!*" the redhead announced fearfully. "First she says it's nothing, but when I saw how deep it was, and the gushing and ohGodI'mgoing tofaaaa----" Fading off, the little redhead keeled over in dramatic fashion, nearly dragging the blonde down as she did so. Nurse Tsan glanced over at McCoy who helped to scoop the girl up and set her on one of the med tables. He looked her over quickly and frowned. "I don't see any blood . . ."

"Over here," the blonde called with a sigh, holding up her other arm, where a section of red bandage was peeking out from her sleeve. "Ilda there was, um, helping me to Sickbay."

Shooting Tsan an amused look that was returned, McCoy left the redhead to the nurse and returned to the blonde, reaching for her arm. "What happened?"

"Got a little careless with a pruning hook," the blonde admitted. "It's not that bad, really."

"Let me be the judge of that," McCoy murmured, steering her over to another table and pushing her sleeve up. The gauze pad was already soaked through, and blood was running down her forearm, the scarlet strands standing out against her pale skin. "How long ago was this?"

"Ten minutes or so," came the calm confession. "I didn't want to stop in the middle of the job so I just slapped a bandage on it."

"So this isn't your first bandage on this," he muttered in testy realization, "because you've nicked your cephalic vein. Not that you would have bled to death, but without direct pressure and some cell-sealant, in a few more minutes, you'd be sprawled out like the little Missy over there."

"I don't faint," the woman protested, letting McCoy peel the gauze away and clamp his fingers around her arm just under the elbow. He moved quickly, reaching in the table drawer for a hypo and spraying it across the wound; the blood vanished, leaving the pink edges of the gash exposed. The second hypo probed gently into the wound and the hiss seemed louder. He spoke. "All right, that should seal the vein, and we'll get some dermal glue for this incision. A pruning hook?"

"I was trimming the topiary in the corner of the botany lab and got startled. The job was nearly done, and owwww---" the woman murmured faintly as he wiped an antibiotic along her arm. "That stings," she added with a slight pout.

McCoy grunted a little. "Normally I'd use the regular stuff, but since the blade edge might have been harboring any number of exotic germs, you get the concentrated form."

At that moment, the little redhead on the other table sighed and began to sit up. "Oh damn. I'm sorry about this, Lieutenant, I really am."

McCoy nodded to Tsan, who returned to the pharmacy.

"Don't worry about it, Ilda—you *meant* well," The blonde told her with a wry smile. "And both of us made it here, so we're good."

"Yeah," the girl sighed, batting her eyes at McCoy. "Are you the doctor?"

It was a patently dumb question, but McCoy refrained from snapping, and managed a smile. "Yes indeed, Leonard McCoy at your service," he replied, and felt the flinch under his fingertips as the blonde reacted.

"Really?" she murmured. The redhead was up now, sliding off the table and smoothing her skirt down with a great deal of show. "I like doctors."

"I don't think he gives out lollipops, Ilda," the blonde muttered softly, but the redhead merely looked puzzled as she came over and smiled at McCoy more directly.

"I appreciate you lifting me on the table like that. You're very strong."

McCoy blinked a little. "Not particularly. It's not advised to leave bodies lying on the floor, especially in Sickbay. Gives the wrong sort of impression."

The blonde bit back a laugh; the redhead blinked a little and chose to ignore what she didn't get. "Is the lieutenant going to be all right? It was a *lot* of blood."

"She'll be fine," McCoy assured Ilda, who had sidled closer and was smiling up at him. "I'd appreciate your help though—" Thinking quickly, he rose and moved to the recording computer, pulling out a small disk. "Would you please take this down to Engineering, to an Ensign Callahan there? Jeffries Tube squad?"

"Oh sure," Ilda dimpled, taking the disk from McCoy. "I always *love* to help!"

She sauntered out of Sickbay; when the doors closed behind her, McCoy sighed. He turned back to the blonde, who was hopping off the exam table. The woman sighed. "That's our Ilda. She means well, you know."

"I suppose," McCoy muttered, not looking convinced. "Good thing I duplicated that record. Just to be on the safe side."

The blonde laughed; a husky sound full of amusement. "Yes, a very good thing. I'll just be getting back to botany, so thanks for the repair job. I appreciate it, even from a McCoy."

"Hold on," McCoy told her firmly. "You're not out of here until I say so, lieutenant. While I have you here I'll upload *your* file and see when your next physical is due."

The blonde shot him a dry look. "Drumming up business?"

"Getting the records up to date," he shot back. "Necessary evil in this job. Trust me—the plants can wait."

"Not *mine,*" the blonde commented seriously. "The cobra vines are due for a feeding, and if I don't oil down the Xxilligan hedge, the stench will permeate the entire *deck.* Please, whatever you need, make it quick and let me go?"

McCoy grudgingly nodded; he understood the dedication to duty, admired it generally, but the woman's slight curtness was intriguing since it was clear that she didn't seem to mind pain. Certainly not as much as the ensign who'd helped her into Sickbay.

"Fair enough," he conceded, and moved to the computer, "Name?"

"Lieutenant Jessamyn H. Hutchinson," she replied quietly. "Exobiologist; specialty, exo and ethnobotany."

"Ah," McCoy acknowledged, pulling up the record. "Right here. Inoculated, last check-up . . ."

"Yes, okay, I'm . . . overdue," she admitted grumpily.

McCoy snorted. "Two years. I thought Scotty was the only one dodging me on a regular basis."

"I'm not sick," Lieutenant Hutchinson pointed out. "And the pruning hook incident was an accident."

"Which brought you to my attention, so you'll be coming back here in a week," McCoy told her firmly. "I've notified your CO, so there shouldn't be a conflict in scheduling, either."

"Fine," Hutchinson grumbled rubbing lightly at her bandage. "I'm healthy as a horse and just as prone to kicking so if there aren't any other stipulations, may I return to duty now?"

McCoy came over and gave her a sharp look; she was only an inch or so shorter than he was, and held his gaze directly. "Only *one* of us is allowed to be cantankerous in Sickbay."

"Then I yield to your *vast* expertise in that, Doctor McCoy," she replied dryly, and strode off without looking back. McCoy crossed his arms and absently watched her, his gaze lingering on her backside a moment longer than strictly necessary, in any medical or professional sense.

Catching himself, McCoy gave a grunt and turned back to the computer, intent on closing the appointment listing and getting back to other matters. However, he hesitated, glancing at the screen. Softly, McCoy murmured to it, "Computer, full records on current crewmember Hutchinson."

"Hutchinson, Jessamyn, nee Hatfield," the computer replied promptly. "Terran human, female. Born in twenty two thirty-three, Old Virginia territory. Parents Asa and Nori Hatfield, Colony Corps, Botanical division. Siblings Aaron James and Robert Lanier. Husband, Edward Ti-Bokar, deceased—"

"--Cause of death?" McCoy broke in, curious now.

The computer spoke up again. "Starfleet Academy training accident, Stardate—"

"—Doctor, did you send someone down to Engineering?" Nurse Tsan broke in, "I have Ensign Callahan asking--"

"Yes. I sent a copy of his record with that little redhead who was here with our pruning accident," McCoy sighed, shutting off the computer. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. Why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing . . . he simply said to say thanks, and that they have a date for tonight," Tsan laughed.

McCoy arched an eyebrow at her, a faint smirk on his own face. "Don't look at me—it wasn't a *prescription*. . . per se."

"Oh of course not," Tsan dimpled. "And I won't even say a word about two birds and one stone. Not at all."

"See that you don't," McCoy growled playfully. "I have a reputation to maintain."

*** *** ***

Three days went by filled with the usual caseload; a few colds, one spectacular rash, and three minor accidents—two from Engineering and one from the Transporter room were all that occupied the staff of Sickbay in terms of practical care. McCoy spent most of the time by reading up on journals and updates from Starfleet as well as monitoring a few experiments in the biolabs.

He knew the Enterprise was due for a rendezvous with a supply freighter out of Deneb V, and further, that Kirk would probably arrange for some social get-together with the Freighter captain as a courtesy. Dinners could be interesting, depending on the company, McCoy knew from past experience, and he was looking forward to a night of good food, stories and a good bottle or two shared at the table.

Occasionally he thought back to his encounter with Lieutenant Hutchinson, and puzzled over her name, wondering why she hadn't either kept that of her deceased husband, or reverted to her legendary maiden name. It was a small issue, but McCoy had a streak of curiosity about foibles, and he made at note to ask the woman when she came for her physical.

*** *** ***

The dinner went well. Solly Diltomok was a salty, funny round little captain with an endless supply of amusing stories and more than capable of matching Kirk drink per drink; McCoy would have enjoyed the dinner more though, if he wasn't slightly distracted by unconnected thoughts that kept intruding on his evening.

Earlier, he'd treated two young crewmembers for minor matters, and both had mentioned being fatigued. Both had also, upon questioning, admitted to vivid dreams. Normally McCoy put no particular stock on such a revelation, but it piqued his interest that the two men were cabin mates, and seemed to have had the exact same dream on consecutive nights, identical down to the details of particular partner and position.

Two instances, especially between roommates might be explained away as nothing more than conversations or fantasies remembered later, McCoy knew. But out of curiosity, he'd checked with Callahan, and blushing, the Ensign admitted the details of *his* dream, bringing the phenomenon to three.

Three was a number worth watching, McCoy knew. Three was the tipping point, and in this case—

"Bones, woolgathering?" Kirk gently prodded, smiling. McCoy pulled himself back and shot the captain a wry expression. Solly Diltomok was holding out the bottle of Saurian brandy, which only had a few inches left in it.

"Sorry, Jim—it's nothing," McCoy sighed. _Yet_, he added mentally. "Just puzzling over the mysteries of the universe."

"Like why Vulcans make the best beer but never drink it?" Solly offered. "Seriously, they use it to bait garden slugs."

"There's a waste of good malt," Kirk chuckled. "Although given the brewmasters, I'm not sure I'd *want* to taste it."

"Oh it's good," Solly assured him. "But you can only get it at the gardening shops, and in logically proportioned amounts."

"Of course," Kirk nodded, grinning. "Since it's a, um, hazardous substance, sure."

"Hazardous only to the slugs who get caught," Solly laughed back.

McCoy managed a grin and rose, feeling a little stiff as he did so. "And on that note, gents, I think I'll mosey on out of here. Sol, it's been a pleasure, and I hope we rendezvous with you again." He held out a hand and the freighter captain shook it warmly.

"Same here, Doc—jawing with you two has been the highlight of the week! Rest easy, fly light," he added jovially. McCoy gave Kirk a passing pat on the shoulder and left, sure that both men would finish off the last of the bottle and share at least two more stories before calling it a night.

The lifts were quiet, and the halls empty. On impulse, McCoy chose to check in at the mess hall and pick up some orange juice to counteract the brandy in his system. He walked slowly, listening to the sounds of the ship around him, soothed a little by the faintest hum of the engines around him. _It was a good ship_, he acknowledged. McCoy didn't love it with the fierce devotion of Montgomery Scott, but then again, few people did—or could.

The mess hall was nearly empty; a few third shift yeomen were finishing up a meal together in one corner, and a harried-looking ensign was reading a repair manual on phaser cannons at another table. McCoy collected his orange juice and sauntered out again, passing through the doors at just the wrong moment to bump into someone coming in.

He fumbled the orange juice bottle but didn't drop it; the other person moved to catch what didn't fall and they both tried to apologize at the same time when McCoy realized he was looking at Lieutenant Hutchinson, and she looked . . . a mess.

Her hair was tied back, but spattered with multicolored specks, and her long hands were stained with the same stuff, all the way up to the cuffs of her uniform sleeves. She smelled wonderful, however; a combination of carnations and sugar. McCoy blinked at her, the corner of his mouth quirked up. "We meet again, Jessamyn *H* Hutchinson. You smell like a bridal bouquet."

"Figured it out, huh? I suppose we're well beyond something as silly as a historical disagreement," she replied, rubbing one hand along her nose. "And the perfume is not by choice—I just helped a Chivill disperse her seeds."

McCoy arched an eyebrow at her, and she gave a half-smile, leading the way back into the mess hall. "Chivills are like . . . well, like big eggplants, for lack of a better way to describe them. They're nutrient dense, and tolerate space travel better than most plants. Ours was fertilized before we left Earth, and I've been tracking her growth. She was having trouble ejecting the seeds, though, so I had to um, squeeze her."

"Ah," McCoy nodded. "That explains the paint job."

Hutchinson glanced down at her hands, making a small moue. "It should wear off in a few days . . . I hope."

"Non-toxic?" he asked out of habit. She nodded, and reached for a plate with a few slices of toast on it.

"This particular Chivill is about six feet long, so it wasn't so much squeezing as full body wrestling. Six seeds, all about the size of a softball, planted in pots of nutrient-gel and clustered around the parent plant. I'm pretty sure I earned my paycheck today," Hutchinson sighed.

McCoy gave an amused shake of his head and guided her to a table before speaking. "So technically, you're a plant midwife."

She paused, a startled look crossing her face, and then laughed. "Damn, I never thought of it that way, but I suppose you're right."

McCoy liked her laugh; it was just as he remembered it—husky. He opened his orange juice and saluted her with the container, his manner slightly sardonic. "Congratulations on your successful multiple delivery, then."

"Thank you," Hutchinson nodded, and buttered her toast. "Here's hoping I can shower and at least try to sleep in tomorrow."

McCoy hesitated, setting his juice down. "Trouble sleeping?"

"Don't look at me like that," Hutchinson sighed, waving her toast at him. "Just when we were getting along so well. Get off the clock, McCoy. Stop being such a *doctor.*"

"Don't get your hackles up, Lieutenant," he murmured back. "I've just noted a few cases of sleep disturbances recently-- no need to get feisty."

She scowled and took a bite of her toast, chewing it slowly before answering. McCoy watched her, biding his time, and when she spoke, her tone was resigned. "Fine. Yeah, I have trouble sleeping most nights. And before you prescribe me anything, I've already seen a few doctors about it, had all the usual medications, but it doesn't help. I'll toss and turn for a few hours and eventually get a few of shut-eye most nights."

"What about," McCoy asked lightly, "other nights?"

Hutchinson blushed. The flare of pink started along each of her cheekbones and met over the bridge of her nose, he noted with amusement. "Other nights I sleep . . . fine."

"Have erotic dreams do you?" McCoy drawled, not daring to make eye contact. It was a shot in the dark, but he suspected he was right. Her little flinch confirmed it.

"I don't see how that's relevant to the conversation," came Hutchinson's huffy answer. She looked away, eyeing another table, and McCoy watched her debate about moving. Before she could, he gave a small, disinterested hum. That piqued *her* interest, and she returned her gaze to McCoy, expression sharp. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Now I *know* you're a Hatfield; prickly as a porcupine and always on the defensive," he countered. "*You're* the one insisting it's not relevant to the conversation, so I'm merely being polite and not mentioning that those too, have been a common element in the sleeplessness cases I've been seeing."

Hutchinson hesitated a long moment, looking at McCoy with a mix of distrust and intrigue. She abruptly turned her gaze down to her stained hands, as if looking at him was too difficult to keep doing. "Doctor, I've been like this since before being assigned to the Enterprise, so whatever's going around, I'm not part of it, trust me. I know you mean well, but I'm not in the market for help. Are we straight?"

"If by that you mean that you're still planning to show up for your physical in forty-eight hours, then yes, we are," McCoy replied evenly. "Prying isn't my job, Jessamyn, but healing is."

She rose up and shot him a bleak stare. "And I thought I was going to like you," Hutchinson muttered before turning and heading out the mess hall doors. McCoy didn't watch her this time. Instead, he looked at the half-finished toast, frowning as the warmth of the brandy in his stomach began to cool.


	2. Chapter 2

The physical was polite, McCoy noted with frustrated amusement. He normally wasn't bothered too much by the attitudes of his patients and fellow crewmembers; most were intimidated by him and the rest were either overly talkative or cooperative.

Hutchinson seemed to fit into that last category, but her general lack of conversation and stiff manner created an atmosphere of passive aggression that didn't help matters along at all. He proceeded, trying hard to ignore her sullen attitude, and checked the biofunction monitor periodically as he checked her pupil response, throat, nose, ears and pulse for himself. Her respiration and temperature were within normal, but her stress levels were definitely a concern.

"What's the point of doing my pulse last?" she snapped. "Shouldn't you do that first, to see if I was still alive?"

"I know you're alive; I just like to let your agitation build to a good level first," McCoy murmured nonchalantly. "It's petty, but I get my little perks in where I can."

She fought an eye roll, and that was a good sign as far as McCoy was concerned. He held her wrist, fingers against her pulse point and glanced up at the biomonitor, noting the sharp drop of stress.

Interesting.

McCoy filed it away, and concentrated on Hutchinson's pulse, speaking in a low and conversational tone, aware of how soft her skin was. "So I see the dye job has faded, and I'm going to assume mother and sprouts are doing well?"

"Yep."

"And let's see—eating well, getting enough hydration?"

"Who, me, sir? Or the Chivills?" Hutchinson asked, deadpan.

McCoy pursed his mouth and leaned closer, slightly irritated.

"Leave it outside, Lieutenant," he advised. "You don't want to get into this with me; not on my turf. I can have you confined to quarters, and that's just the beginning."

She thinned her lips and gave one small nod, shoulders relaxing a bit. McCoy waited a beat, letting his authority establish itself, then he leaned back. "All right then. I've got the blood workup from last week, so let's get a scan and see if there are any discrepancies."

He glanced at the biofunction board has he reached to pick up her hand for the phlebotomy scan, noting Hutchinson's stress levels were high again. The minute McCoy touched her, they dropped.

Odd.

There were discrepancies between the two blood scans, but in areas he hadn't been expecting, and McCoy stared at the results for a long moment, letting the information shift around in his thoughts. He'd been expecting anemia, and possibly some enzyme imbalances, but the jump of cortisol was definitely alarming.

Impassively, McCoy set the clipboard aside and was debating what to say when his communicator pinged; he tapped his chest irritably. "McCoy here."

"Doc, thank the Glowing Deity I got you! It's Solly Diltomok from the freighter _Grolgel._ McCoy, you and your entire crew have been exposed toTikimati Fever."

"Tikimati Fever?" McCoy repeated, focusing on this new and alarming information. "Oh for the love of Hippocrates--Thanks, Solly—nice parting gift."

"Not on purpose, Doc, believe me. I just broke out myself, thanks to my youngest sprat. Since the damned fever's airborne and approximately one hundred percent contagious, I had to let you know as soon as I could," came the remorseful tone of the captain. "A minor disease, usually nonfatal to humanoids, according to Starfleet, but I'd advise you to quarantine yourselves for the next week while it runs its course. And it's small consolation, but I really _am_ sorry."

McCoy had already pulled up the information on the computer and gave a soft grunt. "Yeah, I know you are, Captain—and thanks for the heads up. See you soon; McCoy out."

Hutchinson was already slipping off the med table, her expression concerned. "Trouble?"

"Yep," McCoy sighed, and raised his voice. "Tsan, Chapel, Schmitt!"

Three medical personnel came swiftly from various points in Sickbay, converging in front of McCoy, who briefly made eye contact with each of them. "We're quarantining the Enterprise. Tikimati Fever. Any of you treated any patients for a low-grade fever, headache or spots this morning?"

All three of them nodded. McCoy sighed. "Tsan, you're already breaking out yourself."

The petite nurse blinked, and the others looked at her; small mocha and green spots swirled lazily across her forehead and cheeks.

McCoy shook his head. "Probably picked it up from _me_, damn it. All right people, ship-wide, so we'll need stations in Engineering—you head that one, Christine-- the labs and the quarters—Schmitt you take those, and I'll handle the bridge. I want fever reducers for the humanoids, and accountability for other personnel who might be harder hit by this. Tsan, you're on bed rest for at least a day. Go."

Within minutes, Sickbay was nearly empty. McCoy shot a look at Hutchinson, who stood uncertainly, looking towards the doors. He motioned to a chair in front of the computer. "I need you here, Jessamyn. Pull up a list of personnel by non-human species or cross-species for printout, and let me know when you see any spots on me. I've got to alert the captain and cross-check some drugs."

"I'm a xenobotanist, not a doctor," she grumbled, but typed anyway. "So I'm in the clear?"

"No," McCoy called as he strode towards the pharmacy, "but you've been bumped down the list for the moment."

*** *** ***

The Tikimati Quarantine took effect within ten minutes of Captain Diltomok's transmission, and fifteen cases were confirmed within the first half-hour after that. Up on the bridge, one of the patients was Kirk himself, who now bore spots of bright orange and blue that drifted across his un-amused expression as he stared into a mirror. "Okay, that's . . . not normal."

"Apparently the spots are collected, free-floating points of pigment unique to the body chemistry of the individual," Spock informed him, "And prone to acceleration in moments of stress or emotion."

"So yours will be pretty much stationary," Kirk murmured back. "Charming. I suppose I should be grateful that this is minor, and we don't have any major diplomatic events to attend."

"We'd fit in on planet Dalmatian," groused McCoy, who now wore shifting dots of aqua and silver gliding around his sour expression. "According to the latest information on this, it's no worse than most varicellas, and we should be in the clear in a few days at the least, Jim."

"I suppose we could do with a general maintenance check and general inspection until then," Kirk sighed. "Anyone seriously sick?"

"Two: a Caitian ensign and a half-Rigellian lieutenant. I've got both of them in Sickbay right now, so if you'll excuse me," McCoy moved to the doors adding over his shoulder, "and if _any_ of you feel worse than mild fatigue or headache, bed rest. Doctor's orders."

Down in Sickbay, the line of crewmembers needing analgesics was thinning out, and most of them were amused at each other's new pigmentation. McCoy was glad to see that no one was panicking, and that things were orderly. Lieutenant Hutchinson was still there, helping Doctor Nagazy dispensing meds, and she shot McCoy a quick glance. "Nice spots."

"You'll get _yours_ soon enough," he grunted at her. "Trust me."

"I know," she told him wryly, "I wonder what colors they'll be?"

"Pink," McCoy told her with mock-authority. "All the prettiest Hatfields get pink."

"Are you . . . _flirting_ with me, McCoy?" Hutchinson pretended to be shocked. "Your fever must be worse than we thought."

"How much would you care to bet that a percentage of your spots actually _will_ be pink?" he sidestepped, moving to check the temperature of a familiar figure.

Ilda batted her eyes at him, doing her best to look feverish. "Oh doctor, I'm so glad _you're_ the one treating me!"

"Ensign," McCoy muttered, not sure what else to say. Ilda's face looked like a kaleidoscope as spots of six different colors swirled across her features. McCoy backed up a bit as she leaned closer, swooning .

"I'm SO hot!" she announced loudly. "And dappled!"

"And dramatic," someone further behind her snickered, making other people chuckle and taking some of the tension out of the moment.

McCoy studied her spots with interest. "You look like an explosion in a confetti factory. You've got no fever though, and that's good. Headache?"

"Oh _yes_!" Ilda jumped on the symptom, "Pounding at my temples like _gongs_, doctor!"

"Confined to quarters," McCoy announced firmly. "Take two of these every four hours, and get some rest, my dear. I'll have someone check on you before dinner. Next."

Pouting, she took the little bottle of pills and slunk away; Hutchinson gave a sigh. "She's going to be insufferable for about a day. Thanks a lot."

"And I've got people who are _really _sick," came his quiet counter-reply. "No time for medical groupies today."

Hutchinson snorted, and kept refilling bottles.

*** *** ***

The general atmosphere of the ship was one of itchy amusement; only one in five of the crew had the latter symptom of Tikimati Fever, fortunately, but McCoy himself was one that did. He tried not to scratch and set a bad example, but it was difficult, and when Tsan caught him attempting to rub his spine against the edge of the computer console, she took pity and brought him a backscratcher.

"It's an antique, so be careful with it," she'd warned him, smirking.

"So am I," McCoy assured her, but took the tool gratefully and applied it with discretion as he continued to monitor the two most critical patients, who were in the ICU of Sickbay.

The Morale, Welfare and Recreation staff took it upon themselves to stage a "Connect the Dots" party in the Main Rec room by the middle of the week in an attempt to lighten the mood of the quarantine, and it ran through all three shifts. Some wit had found a ball of mirrors and it gave off extra dots of light throughout the dimly lit room, making it seem as if the Enterprise herself had a case of Tikimati as well. There were exotic drinks of all sorts, and a dance floor, and all around it, dozens of tables covered with dotted tablecloths.

McCoy allowed himself to be goaded into stopping in; Chapel had firmly shooed him out of Sickbay. So far the Caitian was on the mend, but the half-Rigellian boy was still serious, and McCoy was reluctant to leave until Chapel promised to page him if he worsened.

The entire shift seemed to be there; McCoy noted Scotty holding court with a cluster of other engineers in one corner, all of them involved in some drinking game, while out on the dance floor, Uhura was doing the samba with a young and very dazzled crewman in the middle of the floor. Crossing his arms, McCoy settled against one of the bulkhead walls and contented himself with watching.

There was a lot to see. Apparently MWR had brought in a whiteboard wall and was encouraging people to write poetry to their spots on it; on the other side of the room, a few brave souls were in fact trying to connect dots with washable markers, failing as the spots shifted from position to position across various points of anatomy. Through it all was a cheerful mood, and McCoy was glad to see that spirits were high and morale good.

They were lucky this time, he knew. At any point the ship could be infected with something far more lethal, accidently or on purpose, and although the transporters and air locks were equipped with the highest level of bio-filters, it was only a matter of time before another contaminant or virus slipped through again. McCoy tensed at the thought.

"You look thrilled to be here," came a familiar voice. He glanced over to see Hutchinson sipping a bizarre drink of some sort from a tall glass. McCoy couldn't tell what it was, but the scent was potent.

"It's good to see the crew handling this medical crisis well," he drawled in reply, making her laugh. She came over to lean against the wall with him, and McCoy gestured to her glass.

Hutchinson grinned. "Yridian brandy, with some peach juice in it," she replied. "I'm stopping at one, but they _are_ good."

"I bet," he nodded with a small smile. "Help you sleep?"

She stiffened a moment, then relaxed. "Sometimes," Hutchinson admitted. McCoy noted with satisfaction that her spots _were_ pink, a nice mix of light and dark, sailing along gently in a circuit around her expression.

Someone bumped into them, murmuring good-natured apologies; McCoy reached out to steady the man, who turned out to be Ensign Callahan. "Easy there."

"Hey Doctor," came the shy acknowledgement. The ensign turned and looked at Hutchinson; his expression sharpened for a moment, intently. "Oh! I know _you!"_ came his surprised murmur. "The woman of my dream!"

"That's quite a line," Hutchinson replied, startled, but amused. "Use it often?"

"No, I mean it," he mumbled. "That is--I've, um, probably seen you in the halls of deck five or something, right?"

"Most likely," Hutchinson countered, looking a bit more uncomfortable with Callahan's staring. McCoy took her drink and set it down on an empty table, then towed her away, onto the dance floor. Hutchinson followed him reluctantly, caught between any further embarrassment by the ensign, or making a scene by having McCoy drag her. Relenting finally, she stepped into his arms as the lovely strains of "Chattanooga Rocket" began to play.

They danced, a little awkwardly at first, but as the music played on, both of them relaxed into it and found a common rhythm. Hutchinson looked at McCoy with a skeptical grin on her face. "You don't strike me as the dancing type."

"I'm not," he assured her, "but clearly _you_ are."

She snorted, but looked down, pleased at the compliment. McCoy let himself enjoy the moment, feeling glad to give her some pleasure, and wondering if she knew how pretty she looked, spots and all.

"You look . . . smug," Hutchinson observed after a moment.

"Just realizing my prediction came true," he told her, pointing with his chin to her face. "Pink."

"Pink? Oh, the spots," she nodded. "Yeah, you were right. Why did you think pink anyway?"

McCoy took his time answering. Under his fingers, he felt her tension lessen, and even though he couldn't read Hutchinson's blood pressure, he hypothesized it was clearly down a few points from moments before. "I figured it was the most flattering color for you."

Her skeptical look wavered for a moment, and she laughed, shaking her head slightly. "Oh you silver-tongued devil McCoy! Allow me a moment of suspicion as to your motives."

"My name," he growled in a slightly playful tone, "Is Leonard. Len to those who think kindly of me. I'd prefer that, Jessamyn."

Hutchinson nodded. "Len it is, although I reserve the right to shift back when in a cantankerous mood."

She seemed to be in anything but, he noted, and felt a pang of loss when the song came to an end. They stood together a moment longer as the spell faded, and a quicker, more modern tune began. Hutchinson showed her chagrin and McCoy nodded, leading the way back to the wall as other couples took to the floor in their wake. In unspoken agreement, they made their way out of the room and into the hall, away from the crowds and noise.

Fewer people were here, and the lighting was brighter—but not by much. Hutchinson flashed McCoy a wry smile. "That was . . . nice. Thank you."

"Thank _you,"_ McCoy replied courteously. He waited a moment; Hutchinson gave a little sigh and began to walk towards the lift, her actions making it clear that she aware that he was going to see her to her cabin regardless of anything she might say about the matter.

In a courtly gesture, he motioned her into the lift and then followed behind. The car was empty of anyone else, and McCoy looked to her since he was standing near the panel. "Deck?"

"Five. I really _can _find my way, you know. Even without a map or trail of breadcrumbs," Hutchinson told him, but her words were more automatic reaction and lacked any animosity.

McCoy merely shot her a look of gruff affection and hit the appropriate button before speaking. "I pity any stepmother trying to lose _you_ in the woods, missy."

"Hatfields _live_ in the woods," she agreed with a quick, shy smile. "It's said a distant ancestor of ours was the originator of the gingerbread cottage."

"I'll just hold off on any invitations involving home-cooked meals then," McCoy replied, poker-faced. Hutchinson laughed. The lift moved quickly and quietly, gliding to the destination.

Once there, McCoy waited until Hutchinson let the way, following in her wake for the first few moments and once again admiring the view she presented. This time, however, she glanced over her shoulder and caught his glance. McCoy shifted his gaze upward, not apologizing, and she gave a slightly forgiving sigh.

"I _should_ be annoyed," she began, still walking, "but seeing you go slightly pink behind those dancing dots is enough to quell my wrath."

McCoy wisely, said nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

Later, after he returned to his own cabin—a mere level above and three doors left of Hutchinson's he noted—McCoy brushed his teeth, got into his pajama bottoms and climbed into his bunk, trying to relax. He was sure he would have trouble sleeping; between the Rigellian boy and the minor itch of the Tikimati, he was certain he'd be awake a while.

There was Hutchinson—Jessamyn—to consider too. The evening had been more enjoyable than he wanted to admit, and that left him feeling wary. His marriage to Bonnie hadn't lasted long, but the pain was still under the skin. Muted now; McCoy had begun to make peace with the idea that they each deserved blame for the animosity and rancor towards the end, but it still bothered him that their rift was the one grievous hurt that he had seen coming and couldn't stop or heal.

He slept, dropping smoothly into the low deep dream state that touched to the core of the mind. McCoy moved through the slow drift of images familiar and unfamiliar as he slept. Here was a glimpse of a long forgotten medical textbook; a moment chatting with a vaguely recognizable actor from a play he'd seen on Torva 12.

Then she appeared, out of the corner of his thoughts, shadowy but with enough form for McCoy to know her. He breathed more deeply, his body responding again.

/_need_/ came the thought, but whether it rose from her or himself, McCoy couldn't tell. The thought was an emotion; a response; a desire, and he watched as she drifted closer to him. They were in a cabin; details beyond that were unimportant. McCoy felt a surge of sheer physical desire build between his hips. He'd been attracted to Hutchinson for her mind and quick wit, but under it all, she was a woman as well, and his own hormones reminded him of that now, blatantly.

/_need_/ came the thought once more, and he rolled towards her, reaching for Jessamyn as she came closer to the bunk. Her face grew clearer, eyes bright and hungry. She bent over him, mouth dropping to his.

McCoy kissed her, hard, trying to reach up to hold her, pull her to him but he couldn't make himself move. The paralysis charged him with frustration, and McCoy strained harder, trying to draw Jessamyn down as she kissed him again---

The blare of his communicator broke into his dream and groggily McCoy opened his eyes, orienting himself quickly. Cabin, night—and yet the ghostly outline of a woman still there, lingering over him on the bunk. He blinked, staring even as it quickly drifted down and disappeared, vanishing into the dimness of his cabin walls.

Chapel's voice broke into his thoughts, her tone urgent. "Doctor, I'm sorry to wake you, but we have a potential surgical issue here—"

He gruffly demanded the details as he reached for his clothes and made his way out the door, relieved to discover that it was appendicitis and not any further complications with his current patients. By the time McCoy made it into Sick Bay, the patient was already prepped and it took only a few minutes' work to neutralize the infection and stimulate the appendix to repair itself. Chapel assisted, and McCoy shot her a few glances during the procedure.

"You could have done this yourself, Chris," he murmured in an undertone. "You know the process; I've run you through it twice on the simulator."

Chapel had the grace to blush a bit. "I know, but I didn't want to go in my first time without you overseeing."

McCoy nodded wearily. "Understood. But next time--" he flashed her a grin, "--on your own, nurse. Some of us need our beauty sleep, you know."

That made Chapel laugh, but kindly, and she agreed with a nod. "All right. Oh, and Alban Jorns, our Rigellian? Doing much better. We'll be able to let him go by tomorrow, I'm sure."

McCoy took that in and relaxed a bit. "Good. Remind me to write up the specifics on his case and send it off as an appendiary note for Starfleet. How's the Caitian—M'ralla—doing?"

"Asked for anchovies for dinner," Chapel replied. "Nagazy released her a few hours ago."

"Anchovies," came the wince. "Good thing she's out of here."

Leaving Christine to chuckle and deal with the surgical cleanup, McCoy drifted over to the ship-wide monitor and punch up a few commands on the keyboard. The screen obligingly zeroed in on a single cabin, and began to relay the medical statistics of the occupant within while McCoy eyed them critically.

He didn't like being a Peeping Tom, but as the CMO of the ship he had both the right and obligation when circumstances demanded it. The capacity to monitor any being on the ship at any given moment was a useful privilege, and McCoy tried not to use the capacity unless he could prove necessity, and given the events of an hour before, he believed he had that.

"Woman, just what _is_ it about you?" he muttered to the screen, noting the rapid breathing and elevated cortisol that were at odds with the REM sleep level she was in.

*** *** ***

"Doctor, I am not an oneirologist," Spock told him flatly. McCoy had called the First Officer down to Sick Bay, and the two of them were in his office, looking at one of the diagnostic computer screens.

Despite his spots of purple, Spock looked as solemn as ever.

McCoy gave a pained sigh. "Neither am I, but I can't be certain that I'm dealing with something that's strictly a medical condition anymore, Spock. Now I've pulled up every topic I can think of that covers sleep-related psychoses, and while some of them have a symptom or two that correlates to the Lieutenant's condition, none of them are a direct match."

"Have you discussed your concerns with your patient?" Spock asked, ever logical.

McCoy fidgeted a little before replying."Not . . . precisely."

"Why not?" came the question.

"Because I'm pretty sure she's unaware of any phenomenon," McCoy admitted. "And her stress levels are already elevated. At the moment, there's nothing I can put forward medically to justify my concern other than four similar dreams and the locality of her cabin."

Spock crossed his arms and shifted his gaze from McCoy to the computer screen, thinking for a moment. "Then the next logical step is to isolate and observe your patient. You have the authority to confine her to Sick Bay for an unspecified amount of time, and all the equipment you need to monitor her closely. In the meantime, I will search Starfleet's non-medical databases for anything pertinent that may apply."

"Thank you," McCoy muttered, slightly embarrassed, but relieved. With Spock's help the chances of figuring out what was going on had just gotten a hell of a lot better.

"No thanks are necessary," Spock reminded him mildly. "I am sure you will find a convincing reason for her to relocate to Sick Bay."

"A sleep study," McCoy agreed. "That will do."

"Indeed. Is the Lieutenant human?" Spock asked, turning for the door.

McCoy nodded. "She is, but from what I've gathered, her family moved from planet to planet with the Botanical Corps."

Spock nodded, and left; McCoy rubbed his chin and thought hard how best to approach a prickly xenobotanist without blushing.

*** *** ***

Lieutenant Hutchinson was . . . less than pleased. She glared down at him from the top of her ladder, and if her hands hadn't been full of fruit, McCoy had the impression she would have smacked them on the rungs. "You're kidding me, right? A sleep study?"

"The best way to get to the bottom of your insomniatic problems is to monitor you for a few nights," McCoy pointed out patiently. "None of your other physicians ever took the time to do that."

Hutchinson gave a little growl and all but shoved the pink grapefruit at him. McCoy took them from her, stowing them along his arm as she spoke up. "Damn it, I really don't need this right now, but I can't exactly refuse to comply unless I want an official reprimand, so I guess I'm _stuck_ with it. Am I right, _McCoy_?"

"That's pretty much the size of it," he agreed, realizing that as Hutchinson descended the ladder, she was nearly in the same position she'd been in his dream of the night before. It was slightly unsettling and arousing, so he shifted the grapefruit to busy himself. "Grapefruit?"

"Grapefruit. I need them to feed the cobra vines," Hutchinson sourly told him. "Come on--" She glided down the ladder and set it aside, then led the way across part of the arboretum. McCoy followed; tempted to juggle the grapefruit, but he refrained. Over her shoulder, Hutchinson spoke shortly. "Cobra vines require citric acid, and generally root near trees that have it, but of course here on the ship, we're not always able to accommodate the natural conditions . . ."

In fascination, McCoy watched her reach for one of the grapefruits and peel it, then fling bits of both pulp and rind towards what looked like a tangle of shaggy garden hose coiled along one bulkhead. Instantly the vines slithered across the ground, smaller tendrils reaching out for the bits of fruit, dragging it to the nested tangle. McCoy cocked his head, intrigued, but not quite willing to go any closer.

Hutchinson nodded. "Best to stay back—they get overenthusiastic and sometimes tangle around your arm or leg—nothing dangerous, but a bit scary to the uninitiated."

"Oh I'm not scared of them; I just find it hard to believe that any living thing can get that worked up about breakfast citrus," McCoy drawled.

Hutchinson blinked and then laughed, the husky sound low and sweet. "I never thought of it that way," she confessed, and reached for another from his hands. Her fingers brushed his, and McCoy noted the sudden drop of her shoulders when she made contact. He followed along to the next coiled clump, watching her peel and toss more grapefruit to it.

"You're a natural at this—true vocation?"

"Hereditary," she agreed. "My parents were farmers who moved from planet to planet. I never met a plant I didn't like, although there have been a few that scared the fertilizer out of me."

"Plants?" McCoy's skepticism made her look over at him, but she smiled.

"Ever been sprayed in the face with hot acid? Had six inch thorns fired at your eyes?" His alarmed look was answer enough, and Hutchinson nodded in satisfaction. "Okay then. Botany isn't all clipping roses and digging up potatoes, Len, no more than medicine is all bandaging knees and treating headaches. Out _here_ we get handed some real doozies—but we both know that, right?"

He nodded ruefully, handing her the grapefruit with reluctance. "It's not the word 'frontier' that worries me; it's the word 'final,'" he admitted, making her chuckle once more. "All right then; I'll expect you at twenty two hundred; you can bring your own pillow and nightwear."

"Sick Bay sleepover," Hutchinson sighed. "Oh goodie."

*** *** ***

The little room was dark, and McCoy leaned back in the chair on the other side of the observation window, absently noting the readings over it. The sense of being a voyeur returned, but he pushed it aside and let his gaze move to the figure on the bed.

It amused him that she curled on her left side, much the way he did when sleeping. So far Hutchinson was in the lightest stage of sleep; an uneasy level prone to waking and not conducive to good rest. Still, she _was_ relaxed enough to have begun a sleep cycle so that was a good response, especially in light of a new environment.

McCoy watched her quietly for over an hour, trying hard not to note the gentle and appealing characteristics of his patient, but it was difficult. He couldn't remember the last time he'd watched a woman sleep, and the thought saddened him a little.

Hutchinson gave a soft sigh; the monitor picked it up, and McCoy noted a shift in her level of sleep. Alert, he noted that while she was shifting into non-REM, her stress indicators were beginning to move up in small increments. McCoy rose, nose pressed almost to the force field as he watched her restlessness. By rights, Hutchinson shouldn't be moving, not in N sleep, but she was clearly stirring, agitated. He debated for a moment longer, and then moved to the door, slipping into the observation room silently.

McCoy reached the bedside and observed her more closely; her head rolled from side to side on the pillow, and though asleep, her facial expression was tense. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but held back, glad that everything here was being recorded. McCoy forced himself to wait.

A moment later, a pale vapor began to rise from Hutchinson, passing through the sheet and coalescing over her supine form. McCoy held his breath, fascinated, appalled and concerned. The mist had a pearly quality, and began to sift form, taking on a familiar shape.

"Jessamyn," McCoy whispered to the ghostlike wraith, and reached out, placing a warm hand on her shoulder.

The apparition vanished.

Nonplussed, McCoy searched, scanning the space above the bed, straining in the dim light, but there was no trace, not even the faintest glimmer anywhere. He looked down at Hutchinson; she was completely relaxed now in classic N4 sleep.

McCoy blinked, trying to process what he'd observed into some sort of reasonable explanation or hypothesis but nothing seemed to make any sense. He shifted his touch, moving gently to find her carotid pulse, which was strong and steady under his fingers.

He sighed. When he lifted his hand away, she stirred again; without thinking, McCoy lightly dropped his hand on her shoulder once more, and she settled back into sleep, easily and naturally.

McCoy sat lightly along the edge of the mattress, and didn't move for another two hours.

Finally, stiff and slightly cramped, he risked moving his hand from her shoulder, watching carefully the entire time for any reaction. Hutchinson sighed, shifting to roll over. McCoy waited, holding his breath to see if the bizarre shape manifested itself above her again.

Hutchinson settled on her back, arms moving restlessly; she nearly touched him, and on impulse, McCoy let her fingers brush his. The light contact was enough to soothe her and she let her hand drop next to his, relaxing instantly.

*** *** ***

McCoy kept his best poker face as Hutchinson stepped out of the Sick Bay bathroom, running her tongue over her freshly brushed teeth before looking at him. "I still can't believe you watched me *all* night, Len. Did anything weird happen? Did I talk in my sleep?" she murmured, unsure of his expression.

He resisted the impulse to be glib or to lie. "Actually Jess; yeah. Something . . . somnambulistic *is* going on with you, but I'll be damned if I can give it a label—yet," he reassured her with a wry look.

"You're kidding. I can't believe I actually *slept,* let alone moved around when I did!" came her retort.

"You slept pretty good last night," McCoy assured her. "Didn't you?"

Reluctantly, Hutchinson nodded. "Okay, last night was the exception, though. Generally I swear I don't get any sleep . . . unless I'm, um, dreaming."

"Erotic dreams," McCoy elaborated, feeling a pang of irritation within. "And now I've got a theory about that."

A bosun's whistle broke into whatever reply Hutchinson was going to make, followed by Ilda's voice, sounding as if she was holding her nose. "Um, Lieutenant? Can you come help me? The Xxilligan hedge—"

"Tribble crap--She forgot to oil it," Hutchinson groused. "Len, I'm cleared for day duty, right? Because I *have* to go. You know where to find me."

"Yeah," he agreed, reluctantly. "But if I page you, I'm going to want you back here, pronto."

"If you page me," Hutchinson replied with cheeky exasperation, "I'm going to want more than a theory."


	4. Chapter 4

The conference was awkward. McCoy tried to look professional, and objective, but it was difficult with both Spock and Hutchinson sitting at the same table, the two of them as opposite in expression as possible.

Spock spoke calmly, his gaze level. "Doctor McCoy asked for my assistance in your diagnosis, Lieutenant; a task that I was uncertain of in the beginning, but I believe I have discovered the nature of your affliction. It is not medical, per se; more of a cultural practice induced via a genetic implant. Your former husband, Edward Ti-Bokar was Martian, was he not?"

"Yes," Hutchinson replied quietly. She seemed slightly subdued, and McCoy suspected that the Vulcan's matter-of-fact attitude was tamping her normally crisp manner. "Ed was a third generation Bokar, from the Arabia Terra station."

"And you were married to him for five years until his death?"

"That's all in my record," Hutchinson muttered, laying her hands on the table. "Are you saying Ed had—has—something to do with my sleeplessness?"

Her skepticism held a tiny note of uncertainty.

"Yes," Spock told her, and flicked on the screen of the tabletop viewer. An elaborate wedding came up on the display; the picture telescoped in on the couple, who worn robes and veils decorated with splashes of gold and silver powder.

Hutchinson blinked. "Martian wedding. That's not mine, though."

"No, but you had one like it," McCoy conjectured, looking at her. "A traditional Bokar wedding, right? The path of red soil, the three pillars, the face paint?"

"Yes," she murmured, studying the picture. "Ed insisted, and I didn't mind. He was always a traditionalist."

"Bokar culture is rich with many traditions, as I am sure you aware," Spock told her. "But there are some that are not as widely known outside of the immediate clans. After Doctor McCoy described your symptoms and I viewed the monitor record of last night, I can safely assert that you are the unfortunate victim of your husband's culture. You have been bound to him through Anzoluz."

Hutchinson blinked, shocked and still. Finally, she began to slowly shake her head. "No. No—Ed and I discussed it, and I refused. I didn't mind the wedding, or living with his family for three months every year, or that ritual to the sun, but I told him I didn't want Anzoluz and he agreed!"

"He lied," McCoy muttered, feeling like crap to say it to her. "After Spock hypothesized what you had, I looked up the information in Stutgart's, and ran the suggested test on your blood sample. You've been genetically altered for a dependency on access to his testosterone, Lieutenant."

She went pale, and bit her lips in distress; McCoy could tell it took a lot of her self-control to sit still. Spock continued. "The Bokar cultural tradition of biologically binding a wife to her husband is thousands of years old, and while moderately interesting in terms of anthropology, it does promote a classically chauvinistic and archaic view of the relationship. Further, there are very few ways to counter it if the husband dies."

Hutchinson growled. It was such an unexpected sound that Spock arched an eyebrow; McCoy looked away, not willing to risk a rueful smile. She spoke, voice low. "That . . . bastard!"

"Since he appears to have done this to you against your will and without your knowledge, I concur," Spock told her quietly. "It was a gross violation of trust, and at this point, is a serious threat to your health."

"The accumulated stress has been wearing at your health for the last three years, Jess—your fatigue levels have been rising, your hormones are in flux, and the constant adrenaline surges are starting to affect your immunity," McCoy told her. "You can claim to be fine, but the facts are telling another story."

For a moment no one spoke, and finally Hutchinson lifted her chin. Her eyes were damp, but her voice was strong as she sighed. "Okay then. What do we do?"

McCoy relaxed slightly; she wasn't in denial now, and that meant they could get to the more difficult part of the meeting. He uncrossed his arms, forcing himself to look casual as Spock changed the view screen.

"Anzoluz is normally another formalized ritual involving the injection of certain modified genes and compounds into the female. Since there was no ceremony in your case, I am hypothesizing that your husband arranged for the genes and injection himself, or possibly with an assistant. While we have access to gene samples of your late husband, the compound that he used is unknown, and complicates the reversal of Anzoluz. There are over a hundred registered compounds, and quite likely several hundred more that are family recipes and secrets."

"Getting the right one is critical," McCoy interjected, seeing Hutchinson's confused expression. "We'll need the exact one your husband used in order to re-inject you with your own genes and reverse the binding. The wrong compound means instant rejection, or worse."

"Death," Hutchinson said flatly. "You mean death."

"Slow and excruciatingly painful death," Spock murmured with an unexpected gentleness. "Another reason to consider the ritual a cruel holdover from a less civilized age. Do you recall being injected, Lieutenant?"

"If I think about it, I might," Hutchinson sighed. "But it's been a long time since I did any walks down memory lane, Commander, and at the moment, I'd rather not."

"Understandable," McCoy told her, steeling himself for his next comment. "Spock and I have already started looking for the compound, but it's going to take a while. In the meantime, there is a . . . stopgap measure that will curb your restlessness and um, parasitic somnambulism."

"Parasitic somnambulism?" Hutchinson echoed, shifting her gaze from Spock to McCoy. Both men exchanged a glance, and McCoy fought not to cross his arms. He cleared his throat instead.

"Jess . . . the nature of Anzoluz is such that you need to be in close proximity to an outside source of testosterone. With the death of your husband, you lost that source, and the genetic alteration within you has been . . . seeking a replacement."

It took several eye blinks for Hutchinson to react; and a lovely rosy flush flooded her face when the realization hit her. "Oh. God. The dreams----"

"Not _quite_ dreams," McCoy confirmed wryly. "At least, not for you. I'm still not sure of all the biology involved, but we're fairly sure the compound has something to do with it. In a nutshell, you've been . . . um, tapping your fellow crewmembers."

Hutchinson brought a hand up to cover her eyes, her shoulders slumping a bit, her humiliation complete. McCoy longed to put a hand on her back to reassure her, but sensed that any compassion at this point would result in losing a limb.

Spock spoke up. "Lieutenant, there is no need for self-recrimination; you were unaware of your affliction and cannot be held responsible for anything done under the unwilling influence of your late husband's duplicity. You have caused no physical harm to anyone, but the strain and complications induced by what the Bokar call 'widow-wandering' should be addressed."

"You need a . . . sleeping partner," McCoy muttered quickly, to get it over with. "Male."

Hutchinson let out a Rigellian curse and sighed. "Can a large hole open up in the deck and just let me fall through it now?"

"I fail to see the benefit in that," Spock pointed out, arching an eyebrow. McCoy gave an exasperated snort and turned to Hutchinson, holding her gaze.

"Jess, this isn't a suggestion, it's a prescription—think of it that way if it helps. The Anzoluz made you biologically dependent on exposure to testosterone. When your husband died, you lost that source, and from your history, it's clear that you haven't been involved with anyone long enough since then to transfer that dependence. Now when I observed you last night, I realized that even the simplest of contacts—in this case touching your shoulder—was enough to keep you calm and sleeping. The contact doesn't need to be anything more than proximity as far as I can tell, although I don't know if it needs to be nightly, or less frequently than that."

"You will have to experiment," Spock offered, looking from McCoy to Hutchinson. "And see what arrangement proves to be most efficient."

"Gah! Experiment? You mean he and I?" Hutchinson flushed again, her eyes widening. "Sleeping . . . ?"

Spock gave a patient blink. "Doctor McCoy is the logical choice, Lieutenant. He is your primary physician, well-acquainted with the details of your case and personally known to you. Further, he has the required hormone and is not emotionally involved with anyone aboard the Enterprise at this time."

"Thanks for the ringing endorsement there, Spock," McCoy winced.

Blandly, Spock rose from the table. "I believe my continued presence here is no longer necessary. Lieutenant, I will continue to search for the compound as part of my daily roster. Will you allow me access to your personnel records and those of your late husband?"

Hutchinson nodded dumbly; Spock turned to McCoy. "Please forward all documentation of your arrangements with Lieutenant Hutchinson to me; the details may prove useful in narrowing our quest for the compound."

"Right," McCoy replied. He waited until the Vulcan had left before shooting a sidelong look at Hutchinson, who was staring at the tabletop. "Jess?"

"I hated him," came the toneless murmur. "We were fighting all the time in that last year. I wanted a ship assignment, but Ed wouldn't let me go out any further than the interplanetary shuttle. He was perfectly happy at the lab, teaching second year cadets thermodynamic chemistry. He wanted us to start a family and move back to Arabia Terra, back with all his relatives and stay grounded there for the rest of our happy little lives."

This last came out with so much bitterness that McCoy winced. He sighed. "Did you consider . . ."

She looked up towards the ceiling, her tone discouraged. "Divorce is hard. You have to petition to the priests, and make a pilgrimage . . ." Hutchinson waved a weary hand in dismissal. "Just, not easy to do. I felt like such a bitch when he died, because a part of me was relieved."

"I can understand that," McCoy murmured with compassion. "But it's human too. Look, Jess, I know all this is a shock, but the important thing is that we've got an idea of what we're dealing with now, and like it or not, a course of treatment as well . . . so to speak."

"Yeah, I'm a little unsure of that," she shot back dryly. "That whole 'bed buddies' thing sounds damned fishy to me, Len."

He tried to shrug. "If I didn't have empirical evidence to the contrary I'd be fishy too. Want to see last night's recording?"

Hutchinson nodded. "Yes."

*** *** ***

For her comfort, McCoy agreed that they'd use Hutchinson's cabin for the first few nights. He tried to keep his mind on work; the quarantine had ended and only a few last lingering cases of Tikimati were around now. Nevertheless, McCoy couldn't deny a frisson of tension at the occasional unbidden thought of spending the night with Hutchinson.

He knew himself well enough to refrain from speculation; nevertheless, by the time he showed up at her door, McCoy made an effort at nonchalance. Not that it would fool her much, but she might appreciate the effort.

Hutchinson opened it and looked from his face to his hands; he carried a small handled case. "Brought your pjs?"

"Among other things," he replied with an attempt at dignity. "As CMO I'm technically on-call for all shifts. May I come in?"

"Sure," she sighed, and stepped aside. McCoy glanced around the room, taking in the décor with appreciation.

Hutchinson had filled the walls with lovely landscapes from several planets and the arrangements were precise and soothing. He set the case down and moved closer to one painting, studying it carefully. "Where is this?"

"Gemella Prime, just after the rainy season," she replied, coming to join him. Her voice was soft with memory. "I lived for three months in a tree house there, about seven hundred feet up in the sky, and watching the moons rise . . ."

"Sounds amazing," McCoy murmured.

"It was. My father did the painting for me as a birthday present. Len, are you sure I can't just take some pills or something?"

"It's not a matter of ingestion," he replied, turning to glance at her. "It's absorption, and your own body chemistry will determine how much you need. Believe me, if I could prescribe something other than this, I would. I'm not anymore . . . comfortable about this than you are."

"Sharing a bed with a McCoy," Hutchinson mocked gently. "I bet my Hatfield ancestors are spinning in their graves."

"Mine probably aren't any happier," he grumbled, "But I'd say the Hippocratic Oath trumps family opinion in this case."

"Heh," Hutchinson snorted. She picked up his case and led the way around the room divider to the bed and set it down, then crossed her arms. "Ground rules—I'm sure you know this, but no sex."

McCoy shot her a dry look. "Yes."

"I get the right side of the bed," she continued, speaking through her blush, "and whoever gets up first makes the coffee."

"Coffee?" McCoy perked up.

Hutchinson flashed a quick smile, nodding. "Real beans, ground personally, no replicated stuff here. I have a share in a plantation and get packages whenever we make it to a Starbase. Consider it a benefit."

"Oh I do," McCoy sighed in anticipation. "This might work out after all."

He changed into his pajamas in the small bathroom, and brushed his teeth, feeling awkward. When McCoy stepped out, Hutchinson took one look at him and smirked.

"Nice. New, huh?"

"What?"

"The Quartermaster's tag is still on the sleeve, Len," she pointed out. "Like the stripes, though."

"Yeah, well normally I sleep in boxers," he confessed as he plucked the tag off, "but I didn't think that was going to fly, especially on the first night."

"You get points for consideration," Hutchinson murmured with compassion, and moved past him to the bathroom. McCoy laid out his uniform on the chair in the corner and set his communicator on the nightstand, then climbed into bed, feeling sheepish. The scent on the pillows was nice, and although the mattress was a bit firmer than his own, it wasn't bad. He forced himself to relax, glad that he'd managed to alleviate his own stress earlier in the day.

McCoy took in a deep breath, vastly amused at his situation. If anyone in medical school had ever told him he'd have to act as a platonic source of testosterone he would have laughed it off as some bizarre fantasy. Certainly he'd never thought that 'proximity' would ever be part of a prescription, and yet here he was, volunteering himself as a source of hormone therapy. "You're out of your mint-julep slurping mind," he chided himself with a wry grin.

"Did you say something?" Hutchinson nervously stepped out of the bathroom. He looked over, and tried to look non-threatening, but her sleeveless top and matching pajama bottoms were . . . nice.

"Nothing. Just thinking about what I need to do tomorrow. I believe we've got inspections of the replicators on decks five and six."

"Sounds . . ." Hutchinson slid into bed awkwardly, ". . . thrilling."

"Oh yes. We're living the Starfleet adventure now," McCoy murmured, closing his eyes. "Hey, I have a question, Jess. You don't have to answer it if you don't want to, but I'm curious."

"What's that?" she mumbled, turning out the lights.

"Why didn't you revert to your maiden name?"

Next to him in the dark, she shifted uncomfortably. "Someday I might tell you, but . . . not tonight. Let's get some sleep, okay?"

They lay in the dark for a while, and before McCoy drifted off, he realized that Hutchinson was already asleep.

He smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

McCoy woke up swiftly, aware even as he regained consciousness that he wasn't in his own bed. This was disorienting for a moment, but he remembered the situation even as he opened his eyes. The quarters were still dark, but his internal body clock assured him he was within half an hour of his usual rising time.

He took stock for a moment, staring at the nightstand, thinking to himself. McCoy knew he'd slept well; surprisingly so given the circumstances. He also knew Hutchinson was still asleep because not only could he hear her breathing, he could *feel* it against the back of his shoulder. Her arm was lightly draped over his waist and both of those bits of evidence pointed at one irrefutable fact.

This Hatfield was a cuddler.

McCoy smiled to himself, but it faded when he realized that there was another situation to deal with; something that he as a man should have anticipated. His expression shifted, and he slowly began to shift, hoping to slip out of bed without Hutchinson waking, or worse, noticing his . . . . morning enthusiasm.

He managed to get to his feet, skulking his way around the bed and towards the bathroom, trying to concentrate on unappetizing things, but because it was dark and the room unfamiliar, McCoy stumbled a bit on his way through the doorway, and heard Hutchinson starting to stir.

By the time he came out again, she was fully awake, sitting up against the headboard and yawning. McCoy liked how tousled her hair was, and how for the first time since he'd met her, her expression looked relaxed.

It was a good look for Jess, he decided.

"I suppose _I'm_ to make the coffee?" McCoy asked, courteously.

She flashed him a grin. "Do you know _how_ to make coffee?"

"It's . . . been a while," McCoy admitted. "I'm used to the replicated stuff." Which was true; single life had gotten him out of the habit of taking the extra step here and there.

"I'll show you, _this_ time," Hutchinson warned him as she climbed out of bed. "Watch and learn."

He grunted, following her into the tiny alcove. It wasn't quite a kitchenette, but clearly the gleaming coffee appliance held court here, surrounded by accoutrements of high quality. McCoy watched as Hutchinson deftly began to prepare the coffee, speaking slowly the entire time. "First water . . . then a scoop of the ground beans. I'll make it a scoop and a half since you're here. I grind my own and keep them in the vacuum box here . . . how strong do you like your coffee?"

"Generally strong enough to kill whatever's grown on my tongue overnight," he replied, and she laughed.

"Good man, yeah, I prefer it strong too," Hutchinson admitted, pouring the water into the machine. She pointed out the 'on' button, pressed it, and began pulling two mugs out of the cupboard. "Cream, sugar?"

"Cream, no sugar," he murmured, turning to the replicator.

Hutchinson reached over and playfully slapped his shoulder. "None of that crap, okay? I have real cream in the refrigerator, in the stasis pitcher. It's homogenized, so don't worry," she added.

"I should have pegged you as one of those 'back to the source' people," he sighed, reaching into the tiny unit and pulling out the square pitcher. "Are you?"

"Not full on," Hutchinson admitted. "But for the coffee, you bet. Len—I work with the Replication team, providing the templates for a lot of the staples on the ship, with an emphasis on organics. Of _course_ I'm going to be a bit biased about food. Replicators do a great job, but there's a fractional drop in nutrition content every time something's copied, and while that doesn't matter in the long run, I think it costs in taste."

"Hey, hey—talking to the descendent of farmers here, remember?" he shot back, his tone only half-mocking now. "And I thought the lost nutrition was made up by adding protein in the replication process anyway."

"Powder," she grumbled, picking up the nearest mug and handing it to him. "Tasty, tasty soy/triticale/yeast powder."

He cocked his head, wincing. "Okay, I see your point." McCoy took the mug, and watched until Hutchinson poured the steaming, fragrant coffee in. He breathed the aroma, the pleasure an unexpected delight.

"Taste it," she ordered. McCoy carefully added some of the cream and took a sip.

Bliss.

Hutchinson laughed, and began to fix her own cup, adding sugar and cream before taking a long gulp herself, giving a long sigh of satisfaction after she swallowed. Turning, Hutchinson smiled at McCoy, adding, "Try THAT kind of enjoyment with Rep coffee. I DARE you!"

"No contest," he admitted cheerfully. "Yeah, I think I could face the morning now with this in my system."

She laughed.

*** *** ***

Things fell into a routine after a few days, and that suited McCoy just fine. He had always been a creature of habit; the last impulsive thing he'd done was join Starfleet, and even that had been a fairly strategic whim, when analyzed from the right perspective.

It felt nice to have someone to sleep next to again, he admitted to himself. Jess was warm and her presence was comforting in the night—or what passed for night. Occasionally McCoy checked her breathing and pulse in the dark, and always scanned the Sick Bay recording of the overnight monitor the next morning to see how she'd slept.

So far, so good. There were no repeats of the Anzoluz aura, and Jess's sleep patterns were reassuringly normal now, with low stress and regulated REM sleep patterns re-established. Even Jess herself grudgingly admitted that she could feel the difference in her energy levels and focus. She laughed more, and seemed less edgy and tense.

McCoy had requisitioned a coffeemaker from the Quartermaster, who gave him a Starfleet Standard unit, modified for beans, grain, tea and noodles, along with an ancient bag of ground beans nearly four years out of date. This was unacceptable, and McCoy opted to go the inter-ship trade route.

For ten credits and a word in the right ear—in this case being that of Tsan—McCoy found himself, two days later, the proud owner of a Galaxy Lux four cup coffeemaker still in the original box, and a coffee bean coupon redeemable at any star base commissary.

"He bought it as a gift for his sister's wedding, but before he could get it mailed, the wedding was called off," Tsan informed McCoy. "She'll be getting out of jail in the next two years or so."

"Jail?" McCoy muttered uneasily, shifting his gaze from the box to his nurse, who shrugged cheerfully.

"Yeah. It seems she tried to throttle her future Mother in Law at the rehearsal dinner. But testimony from the guests and her future Father in Law got the sentence down to aggravated assault. Apparently the mother of the groom is . . . a bit of a pain in the ass."

McCoy blinked, smirking after a moment. "Damn. It's amazing to think of the legacy this thing's missed."

"Enjoy it—I think Ensign Sanders is just glad to have it out of his quarters," Tsan replied. "Need beans?"

"I'm good," McCoy assured her. "Although if you know anyone who wants a Starfleet Standard—"

"Maybe Quantros down in Ship Maintenance," Tsan mused. "He's always looking for ways to filter the sludge from the reclamation tanks."

"That was imagery I genuinely didn't need," McCoy winced. "But if you can foist the machine on anyone, good luck."

"No problem," Tsan assured him, and commented softly, "I didn't know you were a coffee drinker."

"It's a . . . recent development," McCoy murmured, carrying off the box with the Galaxy Lux. "An acquired preference."

"Just be aware it can become an addiction," Tsan reminded him as she watched him go, grinning.

*** *** ***

With the second coffeemaker in place, Hutchinson agreed to switch off cabins, and soon took a liking to McCoy's. It was larger, with three rooms: A small living quarters/study, a bedroom and a kitchen. McCoy hadn't decorated it much, but there were a few personal touches here and there, and Hutchinson focused on one of them the first time she stepped inside.

"Are those . . . poker chips? _Real_ ones?" she asked, studying the cherrywood caddy resting on the table with fascination.

"Genuine mother-of-pearl," he confirmed, crossing his hands behind his back and bouncing a bit on his heels. "Handed down from McCoy to McCoy for a few generations."

"Off of some riverboat, or out of a fancy saloon with a bordello upstairs?" Hutchinson teased, reaching out to lift one of the chips.

McCoy gave a small, deflated sigh. "Not really. To be honest, my great-great-great-great grandmother bought them at a garage sale in Dothan, I think."

"I'll never tell," Hutchinson promised him solemnly, although it was clear that she was fighting hard not to laugh. "So you play?"

"Religiously," McCoy assured her. "You?"

"I've been known to sit in on a hand or two," came the confident reply. "Although it's been a while."

That was how it started.

It became a comfortable ritual; few hands before bed, with a chance to share the day as they grumbled over their cards and made bets ranging from conservative to outrageous. Night after night, the mother-of-pearl chips clinked sweetly on the tabletop, mingling with Hutchinson's laugh and McCoy's drawl.

"If you have another ace, McCoy, I'm going to pinch you," she growled, fanning out her hand and glaring at it.

Across the table, McCoy half-smiled, one corner of his mouth quirking up. "Are you threatening a fellow officer with assault, missy? Because not only is that a court martial offence, I might even like it."

"That's not a threat, it's a Hatfield promise. Two," she shot back, pushing her discards towards him. Deftly McCoy dealt her a pair and settled back in his chair. Hutchinson stuck them in her hand and studied them a moment, then asked, "Isn't the dealer taking any?"

"Nope."

"Bastard. I KNOW you have another ace."

"Raise, see or fold," came his low rumble. He watched as she reluctantly laid her cards on the table, face down.

"Fold," came her growl. "I hope you're pleased with yourself."

"Extremely," McCoy gloated, gathering up the chips. "This makes seven hundred and two credits you owe me this week."

"Hey! You owed _me_ nine hundred and six, LAST week," Hutchinson pointed out, trying to stay angry, but grinning just the same. "How quickly they forget!"

"Fortunes change, Jess m'dear, fortunes change. Now if this was, say, Poker ala déshabillez, we wouldn't have these petty disagreements," he replied, stacking his winnings neatly.

"Stop trying to flirt just because you won," she ordered playfully. "And besides, you're right—you'd be too busy losing your shirt to be smug."

"Fighting words, Hatfield woman," he warned her, noting her yawn. "Ready to hit the hay?"

"Yep," Hutchinson agreed, rising and moving to collect the rest of the cards.

They moved around each other easily now, and by the time both of them were in bed and just drifting off, McCoy rolled to his side and sighed. "Spock tells me that he's gotten the full cooperation of the Martian Medical Archive, so he's going through their records."

"Mmmmm," Hutchinson mumbled. "That's good."

"Yep," McCoy replied quietly. "He'll start running prelims against your blood sample in a few days."

"Nice," she sighed, and moved to curl around his back. McCoy savored the warmth of her settling in against him. He wanted to return the favor, but knew it was a bad idea, since parts of his anatomy would doubtless take that as the green light to other, less platonic activities.

Still, the comfort of her there was a definite bonus, and he promised himself to enjoy it while he could. Knowing Spock, the time might be shorter rather than longer.

"Night, Jess."

"Night, Len."

He slept, only to be jolted awake four hours later by a page, low and desperate. "Doctor McCoy, you're needed in Transporter room two, immediately!"

Instinctively he slid out of bed and hit the comm badge on the nightstand. "On my way." McCoy pulled his uniform from the bedside chair, climbing into it as quickly and quietly as he could. Hutchinson stirred, not quite awake, and he sat on the mattress to pull on his boots, speaking to her. "Jess, I have to go and I don't know how long I'll be. _Try_ to sleep and I'll get back when I can."

"'kay. What is it?" she asked, blinking.

He sighed, standing up. "No idea, but if they want me, it's probably not good. Get some sleep—doctor's orders, sweetheart." Grabbing the quick kit, McCoy stepped out and was in the turbolift before he blinked.

"Oh crap--sweetheart?" he muttered to himself, wondering exactly where that had come from and how annoyed Jess would be on his return. Shaking his head, he made his way to the transporter room, where a bloodied Security man was lay across the steps, a wicked bone spike embedded through his shoulder. There was another broken one in his thigh, and McCoy sighed.

It was going to be a long night.

He got back three hours later, after surgery and post-op care, angry, tired and distracted. The geological survey landing party had been ambushed by one of the enormous animals on the planet; a cross between a scorpion and a porcupine as far as McCoy could tell. It would have been funny, except that the animal's spikes were as thick and deadly as arrows, and coated in poisonous oil.

For a while it had been touch and go, but the man— Yeoman Trazzan Bo—was going to make it. Right now he was resting comfortably with full monitoring, and McCoy would check on him first thing in the morning, but for the moment there was nothing more to do. McCoy trudged back to his quarters, stripped down and climbed into bed, trying not to disturb Hutchinson.

She moved. Gently, she rolled over and slid against his side, wrapping her arms around him. For a moment McCoy tensed, and then it was as if a huge knot inside him began to loosen, the release of stress so good that he nearly gasped. He took a few deep breaths, grateful beyond words for Hutchinson's empathetic kindness.

"Tell me what happened," she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.

He did. In low, slow words he explained the triage; the rush to synthesize more Denobulan blood, the search for an antidote to the venom. "The kid's lucky that they got him up as quickly as they did, but it was still too damned close! I'm pissed that nobody from mission prelim thought it was worth checking on the local fauna before a beam-down, and I'm bringing that up in the post-mission debriefing!"

"Yeah, that was a hell of an oversight," Hutchinson agreed, stroking one hand over his bare chest in a soothing way. "But he's going to make it, right?"

"No guarantees," McCoy grumbled, but more softly, because the warmth of Hutchinson against him was becoming less soothing and much more distracting. "I've got Nagazy watching him, and we'll see how things stand in the morning."

"Good," Hutchinson murmured. "He's good. He'll be able to handle things."

"Did you get any sleep?" McCoy asked, suddenly aware that he'd been the one to do all the talking. Hutchinson gave a low sigh, and her hand moved lower, across his stomach. He groaned; he couldn't help it, not with his skin hypersensitive to the stroke of her fingers.

"No," she sighed, moving closer, brushing her cheek against his. "I was . . . worried about you, and I'm glad you're back."

"I'm glad to *be* back," he murmured, suddenly aware that she was moving to straddle him, her comfortable weight pinning him down in the very best way. "Jess---"

"Shhhh," she murmured, and bent to kiss him.

In his time, McCoy had done his fair share of kissing. He was no Jim Kirk of course--thank god there was only _one_ of those seducing the galaxy-- but in terms of a good lip lock, McCoy felt he had some talent.

Hutchinson had more. MUCH more. McCoy lost himself in the sweet inviting heat of her mouth on his, teasing him gently. Each kiss was slow and gentle, but when her tongue glided to tickle his, McCoy felt a rumble rise from his chest. He slid his arms around her, and gave himself over to the deep pleasure that kissing Hutchinson offered.

She tasted divine, he thought, when he _could_ think. McCoy knew her scent, her figure, her voice. Tasting Jess made him feel complete, and achingly aroused now. He couldn't see her very well, but all the other delicious senses made up for it, and when she began to touch him, he lightly caught her wrists and tried to speak again. "Jess---"

"Please," was all she whispered, and that one little word undid him. McCoy rolled over with her in his arms and stopped thinking, letting himself simply respond to her in every way she wanted.

It was sweetly urgent, and when she arched up under him as he thrust into her, every nerve in McCoy's body thrummed with pleasure. Jess was plush and her voice growly; she kissed him hard enough to take his breath away, but he didn't mind, not when her ragged little whimpers told him how close she was to orgasm. Moving deliberately, he rocked into her, straining to hold back, and when McCoy felt her lean, damp body shudder under his, the very last of his control dissolved in heat and hunger.

When he woke up hours later, the bed was empty and the coffeemaker cold and unplugged.


	6. Chapter 6

He got through the morning by deliberately not thinking about it, which was harder than McCoy remembered. His body felt fine—more than fine, if truth be told—but the bruising of his ego hurt enough to make him snappish with everyone in Sick Bay.

"Whoa, time out," Chapel finally grumbled. "I don't know who spit in _your_ coffee this morning, but that's no reason to take it out on _us_, Len."

McCoy stared at her a moment, then pursed his mouth in an expression of sour self-realization. "You're right. Sorry . . . I didn't get a lot of sleep."

"I know you were up for a quite a while," Chapel replied, making him blink for a moment until he realized she was referring the Ensign's surgery. "But I'm sure you did your best work last night."

It was a moment of dry humor for him, and McCoy coughed to cover his fleeting smirk before he frowned again. Last night couldn't have been his best, not if Hutchinson had packed up and left.

Mindful of his mood, he kept to himself as much as he could, and let the natural melancholy of his nature brood for a while.

Mentally McCoy ran through every explanatory scenario he could. She was called away for something; she needed something from her cabin; she had some business to attend to—and yet it all boiled down to the same inescapable fact: Jess left him.

With a growl, he called up the ship-wide monitor, and located Hutchinson in her labs. His annoyance was tempered by the realization that her stress was extremely high, along with her blood pressure, and those facts made the decision for him. McCoy rose and made his way down to the Botanical Labs, forcing himself to breathe slowly.

When he got there, it seemed to be empty; nobody was at any of the desks, and the faint sound of humming echoed through the walls. McCoy figured that was indicative of the necessary plumbing within them, and looked around, trying to figure out where to go. The doorway to the main arboretum beckoned, and he stepped through it, finally hearing voices at the far end.

Hutchinson was there, with Ilda and a young yeoman. They were picking peaches off a tree, setting them into bushel baskets, and McCoy watched them for a few seconds, feeling a pang of nostalgia along with his own prickly feelings.

Quietly he stepped closer; Ilda saw him first. "Doctor! I thought these were supposed to keep you away!"

"That's apples, Ilda," the yeoman snorted. "And it's just an old wives' tale anyway."

"Peaches have the opposite effect," McCoy managed gently. "Especially to a Southerner."

"Yeah, and these are the best," the yeoman nodded. "The lieutenant brought the cultivar herself from Georgia, right?" This last was to Hutchinson, who finally turned to face McCoy. He noted she was pale.

"From Macon, in fact. Hello doctor."

"Lieutenant," McCoy replied coolly. "You slept well, I trust?"

It was a jab, and he could tell it hit the mark when she flinched ever so slightly. Before Hutchinson could say anything, Ilda spoke up.

"_I _didn't sleep well at ALL! I had dreams about being kidnapped by Orion traders and made to play the Tuba all night!"

The yeoman stared at her. "Okaaaay. Freaky."

"Oh yeah," Ilda sighed. "How'd they even know I _play_?"

"Ilda, it's nearly end of shift and I need to have a private word with the doctor; would you and Mason go check on the Chivills," Hutchinson murmured, "please?"

The two left, and when the door closed behind them, Hutchinson took a deep breath, glancing at McCoy. "Okay, I need to say this, Len—I screwed up. Twice. I took advantage of you last night, and I took off this morning, and both of those were bad, so if you want to bitch at me, you're more than entitled because I deserve it."

She stopped, looking at him bleakly, and McCoy wasn't sure how to begin. Most of the righteous anger he'd been harboring had faded under her blunt honesty, and given the expression on her face, he didn't feel like laying into her any further than she'd done to herself, clearly.

"All I want," he began slowly as he moved closer to her, "is an explanation."

That was a lie; he wanted more than that, but McCoy was willing to start with the basics. Hutchinson, who had been bracing herself for an outburst, blinked a little.

"For . . . jumping you? Well . . . you're incredibly attractive, and I was feeling . . . friendly. It's been tough, night after night *not* to want more. At least from MY side," Hutchinson mumbled. Her face was pink again, and McCoy decided that he really, really liked it when she got flustered.

"But it was _wrong_," she continued hurriedly. "Ethically and personally I really stepped over the line. It's all my fault."

"Whoa. Stop right there," McCoy rumbled. "As far as I remember—and I have a pretty good memory of last night—it takes two people to make love. Neither you nor anybody else _forced_ me to do anything I didn't fully WANT to do, Jess. So if you think you're going to hog the blame, I'm stepping in to grab my fair share, got it?"

She looked as if she wanted to protest, but McCoy went on, his voice low. "Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but that was a pretty wonderful invitation, and ranks high in my book as 'best way to relax after unexpected midnight surgery,' bar none. If it hadn't been for the empty bed by the time I got up, I could have placed it in the top three of my personal memory book."

Hutchinson bit a tender laugh. "Top _three_ huh? Okay, yeah, I'll admit I'm flattered."

"Jess," McCoy's tone lightened, "talk to me. I think I've got a pretty good idea of what's bothering you, but I want to hear you say it."

She pursed her mouth. "Okay. I woke up, and after I went through all the afterglow and thought about waking you up for maybe a second round, it dawned on me that all I was doing was trading in a dependency on one man for another. Ed made me dependent on him against my will, and I hate him for doing that, but sleeping with you—that's just trading up, not getting cured."

McCoy tightened his jaw, hard, to hold back the hurt.

Hutchinson sensed it; she reached out to touch his chest, and her own eyes brimmed. "Damn it, that's not how I wanted it to sound! Look, last night was amazing, and I needed it more than you can ever know, Len, but we're in a weird situation here. You're my doctor, and my therapist and my drug supply all in one. I can't put all of that at risk because I _want_ you---"

"--I figured it was something like that," he managed, his words soft even as his tone held bitterness. "And the hell of it is, yes, you have a point or two in there. But then again, I'm a grown man, and more than that, I'm committed to helping you any way I can, in spite of whatever . . . connections we build between us."

"Connections," she seized on the word, nodding, "that's what I mean. You and I . . ." Jess choked for a moment and tried again. "We're . . . compatible. We're comfortable—at least, we were until I put the moves on you. Hell, I really _like_ you Len, and considering you're a McCoy, I might as well resign my birthright for that alone."

"So what the hell's wrong with being compatible?" he demanded testily. "I like it a lot better than being at odds with you, that's for damn sure! Jess, if you don't want anything more than to sleep next to me, I can . . . cope with that. We're civilized people, and you don't have to pull out of treatment just because we enjoyed ourselves for one night."

Hutchinson said nothing for a moment, and the hand on his chest moved in faint, familiar circles. "Why do you have to make this all so . . . reasonable? In all the time we've been bunking together you've never made a move in my direction. I was sure you didn't have any interest in me, and night after night there I was, feeling better and better, actually getting . . . attracted . . ."

"Oh I've been . . . interested," McCoy murmured honestly. "I hope last night may have given you a re-evaluation of that. The question is, what are you going to do now?"

"Me?" Hutchinson squeaked, her look wary.

McCoy gave a patient nod. "You. You're the one calling the shots, Jess. Now I won't deny that I'm hoping you'll vote in favor of more intimacy because biologically it's the most direct form of hormone therapy, and because . . ." he trailed off, making Hutchinson look at him.

"Because?" she prompted.

"Damn it, because it's good for _both_ of us in more ways than I can count," McCoy grumbled sweetly. "I like you in my bed. I like the coffee, and the poker, and just being able to get in a word daily with someone who isn't part of Sick Bay."

Hutchinson reached out and took his hands. "Len, yeah, I like all of that too. But I still feel like I'm using you. Taking advantage of the situation because it's prescribed and not . . . spontaneous. And sure, we're compatible now, but who's to say that won't change? That you won't find someone else out there that you'll want a relationship with?"

The arch of his eyebrow was so much like Spock's that she fought a laugh. McCoy snorted. "I hate to break it to you Jess, but you may have me confused with the captain. I'm a doctor, not a playboy."

She laughed; she couldn't help it because the indignant look in McCoy's eyes was belied by his soft smirk. Moving closer still, Hutchinson smiled into his face. "You're damned cute when you're sardonic, you know that, right?"

"Jess," he murmured hoping she would understand what he meant, and kissed her. The soft and tentative press of lips shifted into a hungrier intensity as Hutchinson slid her arms around him and tugged him to her firmly.

McCoy leaned into her, the rush of pleasure tingling through him. There was no hesitation now, and from the way she was kissing him back, Jess seemed to be just as relieved and delighted as he was.

They broke to breathe; Jess gave a slow sigh. "Oh yeah, I could get used to _this_, big time."

"Yes," he agreed quietly. "It's good. And no matter what you think right now, there's more to you and me than a prescription, Jess. It may have started that way, but now, it's a hell of a lot more, sweetheart."

She glanced around and smirked, leaning to whisper in McCoy's ear. "Want to plant something big in a botanist?"

He shot her a sidelong glance, the gleam in his eyes distinctly smutty. "Now how can I turn down a demure offer like that?"

After clocking out, they made their way to her quarters, slipping inside the cool darkness, and when McCoy took her into his arms, Jess moaned happily, her kisses almost fierce. He moved gently, brushing his mouth along her neck and shoulders, soothing her.

She nipped him under his ear, lightly. "Want you."

"Getting me," McCoy assured her breathlessly, because the sensation had him quivering slightly now. "No rush."

"Stop being reasonable and let's get naked," came her frustrated growl. "I've worked myself up into a tizzy all day and I NEED you, Len!"

He laughed, and slowly began to pull down the zipper along the back of her tunic. "Someday we're going to have to work on your patience, Jessamyn—"

"Not tonight," Jess assured him tartly, and shivered out of her uniform, letting it fall to the floor. "Tonight is all about me showing you I'm sorry."

McCoy tried to say something, but she kissed him again, a good, long, slick breath-stealing kiss. By the time he recovered, she already had his pants undone and was pushing them down. "I always heard you Hatfield women were fast," he snorted, amused.

"Yeah, and I heard you McCoys were randy bastards. Looks like that's true too," Jess shot back, "Oh yes, niiiiiice."

They slipped into bed, and didn't say much after that. McCoy kept her lips too busy to speak, aside from a soft and ongoing duet of moans and sighs, punctuated with an occasional gasp and grunt.

Jess clung to him, hands stroking his shoulders, sliding down his back in long sweeping caresses. He kissed her throat and each rounded breast, happily trailing down her stomach as he discovered ticklish and tender places along her torso along the way.

McCoy had planned on teasing Jess about a garden of earthly delights because it seemed like the right pun to make, but by the time he pushed her thighs apart to kiss her, coherent thought wasn't possible. Instead he lovingly concentrated on making her shudder instead, and felt a distinct pride in doing so, several times.

When she finally lifted her head and tugged on his hair, McCoy was more than ready to shift, moving up along her limp form and nuzzling her collarbone.

Jess laughed sweetly. "Come here," she murmured, wrapping her legs around his hips. "Stop being a gentleman and take me."

"As the lady requests," he managed, and kissed her throat.

This time things had a tender intensity, and McCoy fought hard to draw it out, carefully letting the natural rise of pleasure build in Jess once more before thrusting more urgently. She rocked up to meet each one, and he caught the wet glitter in her eyes as she came once more, arching against him helplessly.

The sight was so beautiful, and between that and the heat and pressure, McCoy drove himself deeper, repeating her name over and over.

After that, they lay entangled, sweaty and satiated for the moment. Jess gave a contented sigh. "You have the _best_ bedside manner."

"I was . . . inspired," McCoy murmured, kissing her damp temple. "_Deeply_ inspired."

"I approve," Jess told him. "Especially the 'deep' part. Hope you've got stamina too."

"Oh the night is young, my dear," he assured her firmly.

*** *** ***

Their habits changed. As far as McCoy was concerned it was definitely for the better, and the time spent off-duty held more quiet joy for him than he'd known before. Both he and Jess were loners by nature, and there were times when they didn't see each other until right before slipping into bed, but they always managed some pillow talk before sleeping or in the morning before rising.

Sometimes they argued. Jessamyn had a stubborn streak, and was quick to snap back, taking one side of a disagreement and planting her heels in. It amused McCoy to discover how easy it was to smooth things out by being reasonable; it disarmed her and usually ended up making her laugh. When he himself got cranky, Jess took to slipping behind him and rubbing his shoulders; that invariably softened his tension and his mood.

Not that life was perfect; far from it at times. Moving back and forth from cabin to cabin was annoying, and sometimes McCoy felt the irritation of forgetting something in one and having to go fetch it from the other. This was particularly embarrassing when caught by other crewmembers and having to explain away the carton of ice cream or poker chips.

But the benefits far outweighed the annoyances, and McCoy found he enjoyed the comfort of this new and gentle intimacy. Jess was good for him, and as the months went on, he grew to cherish it.

Jess's birthday was in two days, and although she grumbled about it, McCoy knew that was mostly habit. He took it upon himself to trade with Tsan again and pick up a few gifts that he hoped would soothe the pain of another year passing.

"Emerald Fire?" the nurse demanded softly. "Sheesh, how many credits are you willing to blow, Doctor?"

"How many do I need to get it by today?" McCoy countered quietly, his arms crossed.

Tsan grinned. "Twenty will get it, and another one will put gift wrap on the bottle. Interested?"

"Deal," McCoy muttered. He knew his own gift-wrapping skills were limited.

Tsan ticked off her fingers. "So—chocolate coffee beans, a priority pass to the ship's spa and now perfume . . . someone's a lucky woman."

"If that's your way of subtly asking who," McCoy snorted, fishing out the credits and handing them over, "it needs work, Lien. Try the direct approach."

"Who's the lucky woman?"

"My grandmother," McCoy bluffed. "She's going to be a hundred and nine this year and wants to feel sexy."

Tsan burst into undignified giggles, going a pretty shade of pink at this outrageousness, but sobered quickly when the Sick Bay doors opened, and Commander Spock stepped in.

McCoy looked at him in surprise. "Spock?"

"Doctor," came the calm acknowledgement. "We must speak privately."

McCoy felt a rush of concern, and nodded as Tsan slipped away and back to duty.


	7. Chapter 7

"Doctor, as you know I have been working at finding a way to reverse Lieutenant Hutchinson's genetic modification," Spock began quietly. "I believe I have found an anomaly."

McCoy stared at him. "In what way?" he asked, concerned.

"Initially when we uncovered the lieutenant's situation, we failed to take into account that she herself is _not_ Martian," Spock replied. "And while Bokar physiology is nearly identical to human, there is still a fractional percentage of it that is not."

"Is it significant?" McCoy demanded. A rush of self-recrimination, worry and fear washed through him as he considered the ramifications of Spock's comment, and he braced himself for bad news.

"It . . . alters the issue," Spock murmured, moving to the view screen in McCoy's office. Flicking it on, Spock pointed to a magnified view of a strand of DNA, and more specifically to a tiny discolored section of it. "This is the section modified by the Anzoluz, in a typical bonded Bokar wife."

"I remember," McCoy replied, "Go on—"

"And *this* is strand from the lieutenant that I obtained less than an hour ago," Spock pointed out quietly.

McCoy studied the second image, his gaze narrowing as he tried to see the difference. He blinked. "It's . . . not there."

"Indeed," Spock murmured. "While the lieutenant's husband had altered her to be dependent on his hormones, it appears that the Martian genetic element within her DNA has disappeared completely. Do you know of any recent factor that might have caused this change, doctor?"

McCoy blushed. He didn't do it very often, and certainly never before around Spock, but the flush of pink across his face spoke volumes to the Vulcan, who arched an eyebrow at him. "Possibly . . ." he hemmed, not meeting Spock's gaze.

It was well-known that the First Officer could outwait a glacier.

Spock simply continued staring until McCoy finally sighed. "Sexual intercourse. The direct absorption of human male hormones through various bodily fluids over an extended period of time, all right, Spock?"

"Logical," Spock murmured after a few seconds. "And perhaps in this case, serendipitous."

"Spock, this is . . . awkward," McCoy muttered. "It was never my intention to . . . get involved with Jess."

"I leave the ethics of the situation to your own recognizance, Doctor. What fascinates me is the genetics. It is highly likely that the lieutenant's husband had no idea that the fractional percentage of difference would be enough to eventually break the bond so firmly established in Bokar culture."

"I doubt he thought at all about dying before her," McCoy pointed out, "but it's fortunate he did."

"For the lieutenant, the fortune, as you call it, lies in that you had both the capacity and interest in helping her," Spock managed with bland bluntness. "Without your direct sexual involvement, her condition would have been treated, but not cured."

McCoy winced. "That's not exactly the way it unfolded."

Spock held up a hand. "Doctor, despite your denial of the same, you do possess a degree of discretion, and I trust you will handle the matter of informing Lieutenant Hutchinson that she is cured. I will write up the final report for Starfleet Medical and pass it to you for review."

After the first officer left, McCoy sat looking at the DNA images, brooding for a while.

*** *** ***

She came into his cabin as shift ended, carrying a bag of something, and McCoy wondered what it was. He'd made a half-hearted attempt to decorate; multi-colored balloons were tied to the furniture and in lieu of streamers, he'd used glittery colored yarn to loop around the walls.

Hutchinson snorted, looking at them. "I know I should be sweet and tell you it looks lovely, but Len--"

"I know, I know—looks like an explosion at an old-world craft faire," He grumbled through a smirk. "I couldn't get anyone at MWR to decorate, not without having to explain what it was for."

"It IS sweet," she told him, setting the bag down and slipping into his arms for a hug. "Honestly, nobody's done anything like this for me in years. Hey, I um, brought dinner."

He sniffed the air expectantly. "Oooooh!"

"Chivill lasgana with fresh tomatoes and mushrooms," Jess announced. "A couple of them were ripe; I swear I heard the plant sigh with relief when I harvested."

They ate. All through dinner, McCoy debated with himself on exactly _when_ to tell Jess the news. Jess didn't leave him many openings, though, and by the time dinner was through, he felt an increasing anxiety.

Jess noticed. She watched him clear the dishes, and came over to him, slipping her hands up along his shoulders, rubbing. "Wow, like Altaran mahogany, Len. What's got you so uptight tonight?"

He turned, mouth twisting slightly as he met her gaze. "Jess, you're cured."

Jess blinked. Her hands slid from his shoulders and her confused expression was almost funny, but McCoy didn't—couldn't—laugh.

"I'm . . . cured," she echoed. "Um, okay. How?"

"Because your husband didn't realize that you're human. Beautifully, wonderfully, _completely _human. Anzoluz makes you dependent on male hormones, yes, but you haven't been getting them with Martian DNA, you've been getting them with human DNA."

"Big time," Jess agreed softly, smirking for a second. "So . . . let me get this straight. All I needed to break the Bond was to get . . . laid?"

"In a manner of speaking," McCoy muttered, blushing.

For a long, long moment, they simply stared at each other, and finally Jess gave a harsh sigh. "Oh this is _stupid!_

She cupped his face in her hands, pulling him to her, kissing McCoy hard and deep. He gave a happy groan and kissed her back, arms slipping around her hips. When they finally ended the kiss to breathe, Jess snorted at him softly. "Okay. I'm cured, and that's a good thing. Thanks for sharing your grouchy McCoy maleness with me. Now can we _please_ have some cake and go to bed?"

"Still bossy as ever," he grumbled with relief. "But yes. I take it this means we're still---?"

"New therapy," Jess informed him. "I'm going to make you a Hatfield by osmosis."

"Fat chance," he hooted. "I've already cured you of Martian idiocy; you're the one who'll become a McCoy with repeated exposure, woman."

"Care to put that theory to the test?" she murmured, "because I'm the birthday princess here, and I get my way today. At least with *you.*"

"I don't recall being promoted to xenobotanist's plaything," McCoy mused, even as he began to lead Jess towards the bed. "But I like the perks."

"Yeah, that will be the highlight of your CV," she laughed. "Snuggling, _now._ The princess commands it!"

"The princess is going to get a birthday spanking if she doesn't stop ordering me around," McCoy informed her, and with a quick spin managed to pull Jess down with him onto the mattress. "Hell, I think you need one just on general principles."

"You and what security team?" came her scoff, and the battle was on.

*** *** ***

They lay together sated and limp across the bed, quiet and happy, not speaking but saying much through gentle touches and kisses. Just as both of them were dozing a bit, a thought struck McCoy, and he mumbled softly. "Hey Jess . . . so why _did_ you take the name Hutchinson instead of reverting to Hatfield?"

"I wanted my _own_ name," she whispered back. "I didn't want to be Jess Ti once Ed died, and going back to 'Hatfield' would have felt like denying I was even married, so I picked an old family name from my mother's side."

"Kept it as a middle one though," McCoy observed. "True to the roots."

She rolled to face him, smiling through a yawn. "Yep."

McCoy heaved himself up and returned with gifts, lightly tossing them to Jess as he pulled back the covers and slid in. "Here."

"Great presentation speech there. Bet you worked on that for hours," Jess teased, but lightly. Her voice held a contented tone as she moved to kiss his bare shoulder before sitting up and turning to the presents. McCoy folded one arm behind his head and watched her, feeling smug.

"Coffeeee beeeeans---!" she squealed, picking one out of the little jar.

"More than that. Taste 'em."

Experimentally she did, and gave a purr. "Oh yeah! Chocolate AND caffeine. That should put me into warp drive for a while!"

"Tomorrow," McCoy told her sternly. "The last thing I need is you jacked up on theobromine and caffeine all night."

"Pffft," Jess scoffed. "You're my attending physician; deal with me." She popped a bean in her mouth and happily chewed it, but set the jar aside after that. "Thank you."

"I expect a tiny fraction of those," he grumbled.

"We'll see," Jess murmured, turning to the other two boxes. "You know, you really didn't _have_ to do this, Len."

"I _wanted_ to," he told her quietly. "Now finish up so we can get some sleep."

Jess shot him an arch look. "Somebody's tired."

"Somebody's resting up," McCoy corrected. "You've never heard of the strategy of attacking before dawn?"

"Len!" But her attention was on the little gold pass in her hand. She examined it and gave a happy squeak. "A priority spa pass! ohhhhdamn these babies are harder to get than Vulcan diamonds!"

Jess bounced a little, rocking the mattress; McCoy stifled a laugh and murmured, "I take it you approve?"

"Big time," she shot back, not taking her eyes off the card. "I'm going to get a Turellian massage with mango oil!"

"Right now?"

"Later," Jess laughed. "Much later. Thank you, sweetie. I WILL put it to good use."

"Last one," McCoy nodded towards the intricately wrapped package left. Jess reached for it, but instead of opening the green glittery box, she snuggled down against him, molding along McCoy's side under the blankets and sighing.

"Can I . . . keep . . . _you?"_ she murmured quietly, her voice low and hesitant. "Because much as I like the gifts, I know I like you better, Len. I like you a _lot_."

He took in a deep breath, feeling his pulse race, and looked towards her, managing his own gruff smile. "I'm not the best bargain around, you know. I'm cranky, and I'm on-call for life, and you're a damned beautiful woman, Jessamyn. But, since it's your birthday . . ." he trailed off magnanimously.

Jess laughed, tilting her head to kiss him.

McCoy sighed with pleasure, and when they pulled apart contentedly, he gestured to the box again.

Jess opened it. "Emerald Fire?"

"So I'm told," McCoy nodded.

She was already sitting up, dabbing a little on behind her ears and humming happily. "Coffee beans, spa pass, perfume: that settles it—I think you like me too."

He laughed, slow and deep, hugging her firmly. "I'd be happy to prove it to you on a regular basis, m'dear."

Jess gave a happy sigh, and they dropped off to sleep, entangled together.

end


End file.
